


Your name is Lancelot

by Night_Faye



Series: Your name is [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Lancelot Centric, Lancelot vignettes, Lancelot's backstory as I imagine it, Lancelot's past, Still hope it reads well, The experimental way of writing persists, The life of Lancelot, This is, You guessed it - Freeform, very self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29478630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Night_Faye/pseuds/Night_Faye
Summary: Your name is Lancelot, and this is your story.
Series: Your name is [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165268
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	Your name is Lancelot

You are born as October dies, and cradled tightly by your mother, your father pressed close to her side.  
  


The fire in the stone pit glows brightly, shielding your home in warmth and light, an old habit of your parents from the days of magic and ritual and the haunting screams of those long passed. Days that wouldn’t be likely to ever come again, not if the King of Camelot’s rampage against it continued as it had the past three months.  
  


They give you the name Lancelot, and hope it will protect you as sure as the weapon itself would.

* * *

It does protect you, but in the most cruel way possible.  
  


At five, you are hidden away in a divot of dirt underneath your home, your father’s sickle in hand, and they slide the floorboard back in place. Bandits are outside, and this is a dance you know well, by now.  
  


You don’t cry from fear of the darkness, now. You know to stay silent.  
  


It isn’t silent above you.

* * *

You don’t know how long you wait there, but eventually the floorboard is lifted. Lifted without the soft, soothing sounds of your mother or the gruff, reassuring voice of your father, and the sickle in your small hands is pressed to the neck of a beautiful woman in seconds.  
  


She only smiles, and presses a very cold hand to your cheek. Tells you not to worry, but to close your eyes. And there’s something in her voice, in her eyes, that makes you want to trust her.  
  


So you do, and she lifts your small body out of the hole, and cradles you close to her.  
  


But you ignore her orders to keep your eyes closed.  
  


You wish you hadn’t. Wished you hadn’t _seen_.  
  


There was so much _red_ spread over the floors of your home, the grounds of your village. People who you know each and every face of, now with eyes so blank and skin so ashen.  
  


Your name protects you from harm, but not from grief.  
  


The mysterious lady begins humming a gentle tune, and you feel a warmth slide over your skin, and your eyes begin to droop downwards, your cheek pressing against her shoulder.

* * *

You grow up surrounded by magic, hidden away from the world and from the cruel reaches of the King of Camelot. You grow up right along side a beautiful, blonde girl who is seven years older than you.  
  


Nimueh tries to teach you magic, but you don’t have a knack for it, prefer finding sticks and swinging them through the air. Prefer to pretend to protect Morgause, even though you know she’d probably be able to protect you better.  
  


Magic is still beautiful to you, though, and you can’t help but see the gold in their eyes as more precious than anything else you’ve been told about.  
  


Eventually, though, Morgause leaves to travel. Though she assures you and your shared adoptive mother both that she’ll be careful of the Kingdom of Camelot.  
  


You hate that there’s only one King who is responsible for all of the sadness in the eyes of the ones you’ve come to love, and you silently vow to one day go to Camelot and become a knight.  
  


You’re sure that Uther is a lost cause, but you’ve heard that he has a son, and think maybe he could be swayed to see magic as just another tool. A thing that is only as evil, or as _good,_ as the one who wields it.  
  


A sword in a different shape.

* * *

You are seventeen when you finally leave the isle that you’ve called home for the last twelve years. Nimueh has slowly given in to her hatred against Uther. Has let it fester and spread, and she has lost sight of something she had instilled in you.  
  


She no longer cares about teaching Arthur, she thinks it’s been too long, that his mind would have been corrupted by Uther’s own hatred.  
  


She no longer cares if Arthur dies. So you have no choice but to leave.  
  


You take the sword that Morgause had formed for you with magic alongside, but as soon as you have enough money to buy a real, proper forged one, you do so.

* * *

You spend your days, weeks, months, and years traveling across the lands. You spend them protecting any you come across from bandits and other such dangers of the road. Each day is spent practicing with your sword, until finally you feel yourself ready to put yourself on the path to Camelot.  
  


You’re almost there when you come across a griffin, or rather, a griffin comes across _you.  
  
_

It’s not the best of situations, and you earn a claw to the side which knocks you to the forest floor, and you think you’re done for but the griffin must hear something because it takes _off_ , running and disappearing between the trees.  
  


You force yourself up, grab your sword, and follow it, racing across the uneven terrain even as your side burn in protest.  
  


You get there in time to see the griffin rear above a young, black haired kid, and you push yourself harder to get there in time. Slashing through the air with your blade, jabbing at the beast, slowly driving it back.  
  


Your blade shatters, and you take a few, quick steps back and turn, yelling at the kid to _Run, Run_ before grabbing him and pulling him along. The two of you together race down the the slight hill and launch yourselves over a fall tree to take cover.  
  


It’s a relief when the griffin takes to the skies, but your side is a writhing thing of burning and stabbing and deep ache, and you press your hand to it.  
  


You’re both breathing hard, and the kid says ‘ _you saved my life_.’ which gives you some sort of feeling, a warmth, and then he smiles and sticks his hand out, introduces himself as Merlin.  
  


You shake it, tell him you’re Lancelot, before the pain becomes too much, and the blackness at the edge of your vision spreads.

* * *

You leave Camelot an almost knight, and find yourself with three new friends to think of.  
  


You leave Camelot and find yourself incapable of letting the image of a beautiful girl with a beautiful smile, go.  
  


You leave Camelot knowing you were right to still trust that Arthur wasn’t already Just Like His Father as your adoptive mother always said.  
  


You leave Camelot with another secret of magic, another pair of golden eyes, and you _grin_.

* * *

But you lose yourself, you can’t help but be upset. There are moments when you wish you had taken the credit anyways, become a knight. But something deep in your heart always protested that, always protested becoming a knight over a falsity.  
  


Whether a seal or a deed.  
  


But it’s still hard.

* * *

The next time you see the beautiful girl that occupies your thoughts, it’s in the least ideal situation possible. She’s thought to be Morgana, and seeing her act so noble, so _regal_ , stirs something in you.  
  


She’s always been beautiful, but something about her pulling power and authority over her shoulders like a cloak makes it shine even brighter.

* * *

And when night falls, you find yourself outside her cell, and all of a sudden you find yourself again. Because she still sees the hope in you, and it’s another warmth that you don’t have the words to explain, but you hide away under your ribs alongside the warmth of your parents, and of your adoptive family, and of Merlin saying ‘ _You saved my life_ ’ and smiling at you, and of Arthur arguing that if the rules didn’t allow you your dream, than the rules were _wrong.  
  
_

You promise to get her out of there, before you have to flee so as not to be seen.

* * *

It’s in the middle of the escape from the bandits that you watch that brilliant gold over take Merlin’s eyes, and you _grin_ , because it’s so good to know that Merlin’s still himself, and still up to his old tricks.  
  


You learn that Arthur has feelings for Gwen, and something twists in your heart, but the look in Merlin’s eyes is a conflicted sort of look.  
  


You can see that he truly cares for the both of them, can see he cares for _you_ , too, but it’s a different sort of care.  
  


You find you can’t come between the servant girl who pulls the air of a queen on like an old coat and the king still trapped in a prince’s role apart. Can’t keep the happiness of watching two close friends come together over all adversities from Merlin.  
  


So you do the only thing you can do, once again.  
  


You leave.

* * *

You still use your blade to earn money, but you never again fight for others amusement.  
  


You base yourself in towns, or along roadsides, and you offer your services of protection to travelers and merchants for whatever they can pay.  
  


Food and a place to sleep is your most common payment, and it’s as good as the rare gold pieces you get.  
  


Eventually, you meet someone doing the exact same thing.  
  


You share a history of losing your entire village, and you and this Percival decide to stick together after that

* * *

It’s not too terribly long later that you receive a letter from Merlin, and you think it’ll be like any of his others that always seem to find you. A feat you strongly consider might be magical, but aren’t sure of.  
  


But this isn’t any normal letter, and you tell Percival you have to go, that your friend needs you and it’s dangerous, and maybe they could find each other again.

* * *

You find each other again that evening, when Percival drops down next to you, his wrists propped on his knees, and asks if you have any objection to him joining.  
  


Any friend of yours, he says, is someone he’d like to meet.  
  


You _grin._

* * *

You finish dispatching the six soldiers that had been guarding the golden cup, though your shoulder is on fire from the blow you had taken, and you can’t push yourself up from the ground.  
  


But it’s okay, it’s _fine_ , because Merlin is heading for the cup.  
  


Except it’s not okay, because Merlin is caught and tossed back, slammed into one of the pillars, by an invisible force.  
  


By _Magic_.  
  


By magic wielded by a painfully familiar face. You don’t think she sees you, for all she’s focused on Merlin, and you have a hard time breathing.  
  


You remember how the hatred had consumed your adoptive mother. You see the same has happened to her.  
  


You try and force yourself up, hate that your mind is quickly slotting through scenarios of how to stop her, how to protect Merlin. You had grown up with these exact scenarios in your dreams, but it was never Morgause that was on the other end of your blade.  
  


But you _can’t_. And You’re thankful when it turns out you don’t have to fight her when Gaius shows up.  
  


None of this stops your heart clenching tight when she herself is slammed against a pillar, so forcefully that she slumps, unconscious, to the floor.

* * *

You’re still reeling, after the battle. There’s no sign of your adoptive sister, nor her sister. Who also happens to be Arthur’s sister.  
  


That still baffles you, a bit, but it’s hardly the oddest thing you’ve seen.  
  


And you’re no stranger to things like fate. You wonder if that’s how you’ve seemingly continuously met with Merlin and Arthur and Gwen. Threads far beyond human comprehension, unbreakable.

* * *

Over the course of a year you grow close to your fellow knights.  
  


Gwaine, especially, if only for the fact that he seems to always hunt down where Merlin is to spend time with the servant. It’s an inclination that you share, so often the two of you will run in to each other already with your shared friend, or on your way there.  
  


It’s always a dance with the three of you, though. With you knowing of Merlin’s magic, and it being clear that Merlin knows something of Gwaine.  
  


You’re a bit curious, but you never push, never pry. You have a secret of your own, of your life after your family died and before you began traveling.  
  


It’s a secret you worry will make even Merlin look at you differently.  
  


So you let Gwaine have his silence.

* * *

It’s at the veil when everything almost crashes down. Merlin’s done whatever it is the name of ‘ _Emrys’_ grants him to do, and Gwaine had _seen_.  
  


But he smiles _,_ and nods at you, and you realize ‘ _Oh, this isn’t a problem for him._ ’  
  


And you can’t help the grin that hurts your cheeks when Gwaine looks at Merlin with such a gentle face, soft smile and soft eyes, and it’s a look you have seen on people who are truly devoted to each other, no matter the reason.  
  


It is, you imagine, much like the look you have when you look at those you care about beyond your own personal safety.  
  


It is, you imagine, the look you had when you thought you were going to give yourself to the veil to save Merlin, and to fulfill your promise to Gwen. You wondered, if you had gone through with it, before Merlin had a chance to break out his bargaining chips, if they would know.  
  


If they would know it wasn’t _just_ for one of them, that it would have been _for both of them_.  
  


But you won’t ever know, because you don’t give yourself to the veil.

* * *

You don’t give yourself to the veil, so you are there for Gwaine to tell you and Merlin the entire story of _him_. Every little tidbit that made Gwaine who he was today.  
  


And that, all of it, give you the courage to open up with your own past.  
  


Something shifts, and you wonder if a three-fold of secret holders has some bearing in the magical world, if the three-fold goddess has anything to do with the newfound peace that settles in your soul.  
  


You find that you don’t really care if it’s magic or not. Because you’ve lost two families, but this one you are determined to keep.


End file.
